


Just Like Fire

by CrackingLamb



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Eventual Romance, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Mostly Canon Compliant, Prompt Fill, Short Chapters, chapter specific tags in author's note
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-27
Updated: 2021-01-24
Packaged: 2021-03-09 20:14:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 16,238
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27732094
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CrackingLamb/pseuds/CrackingLamb
Summary: So long as the music plays, we dance.~ FlemethShort prompt fills for La'vise Lavellan.NSFW chapters will be marked.Beta'd by Iron_Angel.Now uploading new material!
Relationships: Female Lavellan/Solas
Comments: 24
Kudos: 21





	1. Introduction - Strangers

“Quickly, before more come through!”

La'vise Lavellan didn't have time to think, or even react. The stranger took her wrist in a firm grip, held up her hand to the glowing green rift and suddenly...

Suddenly...

The connection was visceral, blinding. It stole her breath and weakened her knees. It hurt like a burn, like something was trying to pull her soul through the palm of her hand. She glanced at the stranger's face and saw he was scowling fiercely at her. It was shocking, the amount of rage on his face. They'd never even seen each other before. Why would he be angry?

The rift closed and he let her go, stepping back and when she looked at him, his face was placid and expressionless. For a moment she wondered if perhaps she'd imagined the wrath, or that it hadn't been aimed at her at all, considering what they were fighting.

“What did you do?” she asked, curious now as her hand thrummed with energy and her whole body felt weak and disjointed. A badly sewn doll.

“I did nothing,” he replied. There was emphasis there. Implication that she was the one responsible, that he had nothing to do with this. That he was in the wrong place at the wrong time, just as she was.

She didn't know how she knew it, but she wasn't buying it.

He was a quiet man. He would greet her courteously enough, but it was reserved, cautious. He didn't warm to her presence until she asked questions, until she prodded deeper, until she announced her interest in anything he had to say. Until she promised him that no matter what else happened, she would not let a fellow elf fall between the cracks of a human run organization. He cared little for her Dalish roots, but that didn't mean she would allow him to forget that they were together in this chaos.

He spoke little when they traveled. He would make occasional comments on the scenery, the energy of a place, the memories that lingered past what those without magic could sense. He was often insightful with few words, and she learned to listen for them. He was often cold and curt with their other companions, prone to snapping with a temper barely leashed. At least in the beginning. It wasn't long before he began to make overtures of peace and understanding. She assumed he'd been on his own too long, and had forgotten what polite company was like.

“Or, without magical training, you cannot notice the parts of my magic that clunk,” he said to Iron Bull. La'vise snorted aloud. How did he make such an absurd statement sound so proud?

He was graceful in battle. He had used those words on her, but she didn't think they applied. But him! Magic was a partner to him, and he made it dance like poetry in motion. She caught herself more than once just watching him when she should have been defending.

He was a finicky eater. His appetite was minimal for a mage so active, and there were times she grew concerned. She knew well from her clan's Keeper and First what it took to sustain magical energy in reserve. She resolved to find better foods to tempt him to keep up his strength. She didn't even analyze why it was important to her. He was part of her team, invaluable as a voice of counsel, a friend, a mentor. The fact that it gave her an opportunity to spend time in his presence was neither here nor there.

He preferred softer clothes, things that wore well and did not often need repair. He usually had smudges of charcoal on his fingertips, but it was months before she caught him in the act of drawing. He was a private man, and for the most part, she respected that. The first time he asked if she would sit for him, she nearly preened to be allowed a glimpse into his soul.

He treasured solitude every bit as much as he treasured trusted company. She rarely saw him inside the cramped tavern of Haven, but would often find him leaning on the wall outside, nursing some mulled something or other in a mug. After a while, it became a habit to join him there, shivering in the cold wind without feeling it as they talked. As they flirted. For he was a smooth flirt for a man so uncommonly diffident. No, not that. And not nervous either.

She didn't know what he was, only that his words could equally make her blood burn as they could make her laugh.

He had a soothing presence. She was rattled by the events that led to Haven's fall, rattled further by the unwavering devotion of these humans who looked to her to lead them out of the wilderness. To save them. She was just a Dalish hunter. Her only power came from something accidentally bestowed. _He_ was the one who gave them direction, helped her find her purpose in all this mess.

“Their faith is hard won, lethallan, worthy of pride,” he said by the light of a veilfire torch in the middle of nowhere. _Kin_ , he called her. _We are the same_. She knew enough of her mother tongue to know there was a layer there, for his own name meant pride. Did he see her as worthy of his attention too?

He did.

He had a mouth made for the kind of sinning the Chantry warned against. Stuff and nonsense to her, proud heathen that she was, but still...when he kissed her it was consuming. It was wonderful. It stole her breath and made her burn all the more. In this, he was not nearly as cautious as he felt he should be. She delighted in it.

His touch was sure, confident. He knew precisely how to unravel her secrets, how to make her fall apart in his arms and see her through to the other side of their passions. When he said her name, she could hear each and every connotation of the syllables, he knew them all. He was fluent in their dying language.

It had been a hint, she realized later. Much later, when she was alone with her broken heart. When he was gone. His legacy on her was as timeless as his years, written stark for anyone to see in his murals, written still upon her brow where colorful twining lines declared her a free Dalish adult...but a slave to the Creators. She had won no victory in slaying Corypheus. She had lost all that she was, all that she meant, all she had done.

“Solas,” she said, aching with pain as the Anchor ate at her arm, up to her ankles in frigid water as he stood with his back to her. He turned, his face sad and heavy, resigned. Cautious.

She thought she knew him, and perhaps she _did_ know a side of him that had lain fallow for uncounted years. She had been right those years ago when she didn't believe that he had nothing to do with any of this. She had been so right. She did not know this stranger.


	2. Afraid

La'vise rolled the amulet back and forth in her hands, looking over the etchings on its surface, the stylized wolf head and marks of hard wear along the edges. She had conquered a fear without realizing it until this moment and it was somewhat bemusing.

“Copper for your thoughts?” Varric asked across the fire, watching her. They were settled into camp, a good hot meal in their bellies, their armor tended to, the long day done.

“I was always afraid of wolves, you know,” she said, still looking at the amulet.

“Any particular reason why, other than the obvious slavering and rending teeth reason?” Varric rejoined with a bit of a laugh. She smiled at the description before rubbing her thumb across the carved wolf's head.

It was hard to tell just how old the amulet was, but it appeared to be _quite_. Its power was diminished, but still present. Once she'd put it on, none of the remaining wolves had attacked her. She knew she would keep it. Even if it was just as a thread of a connection to her roots. The way the head was carved was too reminiscent of the old statue her clan used. It was like carrying a piece of home with her.

“The Dalish are taught to be wary. Because of the Dread Wolf.” From the corner of her eye she saw Solas turn his head slightly from his journal. He was listening, but didn't appear to be ready to interrupt with another one of his caustic opinions of the Dalish for once. “Never let him catch your scent, never let him hear your footsteps.”

“Ahh, yeah, I know a bit of those legends. Daisy used to tell us stories.”

“Daisy?”

“Merrill. She was from a Dalish clan.”

“Sabrae? I know of Merrill.”

“No shit?”

“Yes. I was a child the last time I saw her. The last Arlathvan she attended. I must have been...oh, seven or eight. She wasn't at the one a few years ago.” She huffed. “No surprise, there. There isn't a clan Sabrae left now.”

“So, tell me why you're bringing this up now?”

“Those wolves we fought, for the horsemaster's wife. They weren't...I wasn't afraid of them.”

“Why not?” Cassandra entered into the conversation.

“I'm not sure, really. Maybe because I'm older. Or maybe because at this point I've seen far greater terrors than some legend from before the Dales fell. Even if I can't remember the details.”

“You do not fear that he is real?” Solas asked, drawing her attention away from the amulet to his face. There was something there, some dark hidden emotion in his eyes made more obscured by the firelight. Then it was gone, and she wasn't sure she hadn't just imagined it.

“The Creators have never heeded the Dalish's prayers. Why should Fen'Harel be any different?” she scoffed.

“And that necessarily means none of them exist, da'len? Those that follow the Andrastian faith have no proof of the Maker, but that does not mean he is not out there, somewhere.”

La'vise made a face at him, equal parts exasperation and ridicule. “Really, Solas, is that the best argument you can come up with? The last few months have shown us all that we don't know half of what we think we do of this world. I'm willing to bet that all our religions are wrong. Surely no hand of the Maker, nor work of the Creators, would bring this chaos upon Thedas. _Hahren_.”

“A fair point,” he agreed with a tilt of his head. “There are certainly more mysteries on this earth than answers.”

“I mean, by that logic, one might even accuse the Dread Wolf of being behind the Breach,” she said lightly. She wasn't really expecting him to agree, it was fairly preposterous when she thought about it. But she certainly wasn't expecting the startled laughter that came out high pitched and was abruptly cut off before it got too loud. He shook his head and went back to his journal.

“If what Daisy said is true,” Varric said before she could examine Solas's reaction, “I wouldn't be a bit surprised. Sounds like his thing.”

“I am unfamiliar with these legends,” Cassandra said. “Who is the Dread Wolf?”

“The great Betrayer,” La'vise answered before Solas could so much as open his mouth. “He locked away the Creators in the Fade, cutting the Dalish off from our gods. No one knows why, whether it was pure malice, jealousy or just because he is known to be a trickster. He is...”

“Reviled, I believe is the word you are looking for,” Solas said dryly.

“No. Not reviled. We have respect for him among the pantheon, just as we have respect for Elgar'nan's fire and Dirthamen's secrets. But it's true that we have no great love for him. His is a figure of terrible deeds, and many of our curses invoke his name because of it.” She shrugged. “It doesn't matter. He's probably about as real as any other supposed deity.”

“Perhaps,” Solas said dismissively. He closed his journal as the light faded, leaving only the fire for them to see each other by. He stood and stretched and wandered away from the camp, as he often did in the evenings. She had yet to ask him what he did when he left, why he always walked for an hour or two before settling down to sleep.

“Well, Wolfs-bane, I'm glad to see you aren't afraid of them anymore. It makes one of us.” He poked the fire around a little bit more and stood up, brushing off his backside. “I'm gonna turn in. It was a long day and some of us were much more up close and personal with dread beasts than others.”

“Goodnight, Varric,” she laughed.

Cassandra watched him go and shook her head for a moment. Then she came and sat down with La'vise at the fire. “He is going to keep calling you that now, you realize.”

“Probably. It's all right. It beats anything he might choose.”

“I suppose I had not thought much of your heritage and how it differs. I have not known many Dalish.”

“We don't travel much through Nevarra, I would guess.”

“No. Your clan, they are in the Free Marches, yes?”

“Yeah.”

“You do not speak of it often.”

“No, I suppose I don't. I don't know how my Keeper would feel about me being the Herald of another religion.”

“Is that why you will not say whether or not you believe Andraste saved you in the Fade?”

“There's that, and honestly? I don't know who the woman was. It's too...bright.”

“I must remind myself that you have a history all your own. That you have your own beliefs and that I should not force mine upon you. This was a good reminder. I won't forget again.”

Cassandra stood and squeezed La'vise's shoulder before disappearing into the tent they would share. La'vise put another log onto the fire to catch and climbed the rock that formed one of the boundaries of this little camp, well within sight of Dennet's farm as well as the road that led back toward Redcliffe. From there she could see Solas. He looked like he was casting.

She waited until he began to come back before she uncurled from her compact position and he could see her in the dark. “What were you doing?”

“Placing wards, as I do each night.”

“Is that what you do when you wander off? You could have just said something.”

His mouth ticked up on one side, a half smile. “It is not something I wished you to be concerned about.”

In another, that might have sounded insulting, but she thought she understood. There was no peace to be had, here or anywhere else in the Hinterlands. It was a small gesture and quite possibly eased the burden on the Inquisition soldiers who stood guard over her while she slept. And he didn't like drawing too much attention to himself. She grinned at him.

“Will they keep Fen'Harel away?” she joked.

Solas offered her a hand to get down from the rock and chuckled. It sounded a little forced but warmed to genuine by the time her feet hit the ground. “I rather doubt anything anyone could do would keep him at bay if he did not wish to be, da'len.”

She held up the amulet and grinned again. “I guess I should be glad I'm doubly protected, then.”

“Ma nuvenin,” he replied with a small smile. If his eyes glittered in the darkness, it was only because of the way the firelight was hitting him, she was sure. She let go of his hand and banked the fire, made sure the guards were posted and finally turned back to him where he still stood at the edges of camp.

“I'm going to bed. Don't stay up too late.”

“Of course not, Herald. On era'vun.”

“On era'vun, Solas.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On era'vun - goodnight


	3. Don't Stop

La'vise had gotten used to walls. She realized this as the Inquisition leaders trekked up the mountain trails, a train of survivors from Haven ranged out behind them for half a mile, carrying everything they owned. The morale was fragile, including her own. They had lost everything, caught up in something much bigger than they'd anticipated, and they were now on the move to some unknown location following an elf with equally unknown magic in her hand. She understood their level of worry and distrust. And she, like them, missed the implied security of walls.

The trip took much longer with so many. La'vise had tracked and hunted and traveled with her clan her whole life, and she knew how far a well organized camp could move in a day. This was...not like that. Before they'd even set out from the cave where the town had retreated, she had a dozen strong men and women go out and fell whatever dead trees they could find, hauling the wood back and chopping it to make for more manageable transport. They needed fires, for cooking and for warmth. They needed meat, and had another scouting party hunt down several druffalo and nugs, butchering them into roasts and haunches that froze as they traveled, negating the need for more time spent smoking and preserving. She herself led those able bodied and knowledgeable to harvest elfroot, bitter winter greens and edible roots to supplement their meals.

Three days into the trip up the mountains, she emerged from her private tent – a totally unnecessary waste of space in her opinion, there were others who could use it far better – and looked around the makeshift camp to see things moving more smoothly than the previous day. She hadn't thought to be one to lead masses of humans through the wilderness, but here she was. At least in this, she knew what she was doing.

“Have you seen Solas?” she asked Leliana when she found her ladling out hot porridge from a kettle. La'vise took her own portion, letting the cold air waft the steam away before she gobbled it down.

“He went north, checking to make sure the pass is unblocked,” the Spymaster replied.

La'vise took her bowl with her and wandered away from the camp to find him. The fledgling Inquisition looked to her for leadership, but _she_ was relying on Solas's far greater familiarity with the region to get them to this place he'd spoken of. She idly scooped up the porridge, stoutly refusing to balk at its plainness, and rounded a curve in the mountain path to see Solas across the clearing, going through motions she recognized from fighting at his side. She almost turned back, letting him keep his privacy, but he spun in place and saw her. He stopped and beckoned to her.

“Good morning,” he said pleasantly as she walked to him. He was only slightly out of breath in the thinner air and she was mildly envious. She felt like she was gasping all the time between the altitude and the cold.

“Hungry?” she asked, offering the rest of her bowl. He smirked and shook his head, outright grinning as she grumbled.

“You have greater need to keep up your strength than I, my friend,” he said. “Forgive me for being away so long. I felt it prudent to enjoy some solitude while I could.”

“I can understand that. The pass is clear?”

“Yes.”

She turned to go. “I'll leave you then. Let you enjoy some quiet time.”

“Your presence is not unwelcome, lethallan,” he said before she could go two steps. She looked over her shoulder at him. He was watching her with that calm expression he usually wore, lightly tinged with wry amusement. She could never tell what that meant. “You should perhaps observe the forms in which I cast, so that you can recognize them without the pace of actual fighting behind them.”

“All right.”

He stepped away from her and resumed the graceful motions, his hands flourishing and twisting, his arms mimicking the push and pull of magic. She saw how he planted his feet, how he moved through the different stances and positions. She hadn't realized just how involved his body language was in conjunction with magic, and yet how simple it was. He seemed to need very little force behind his spells, as if it was as natural to him as breathing. Her Keeper and the First had more emphasis in their movements, like the Fade resisted their draw upon it.

“You make it look easy,” she said. He paused and a half smile lit his face. “Sorry, I didn't mean to interrupt.”

“What was it that the Iron Bull said? I am not flashy or aggressive.”

“No, you're neither. But...it looks so natural. Evocative of what ancient elves might have done.” And then she blushed, _hard_. She hadn't meant to make that sound so...girlish.

“I shall take that as a compliment,” he replied, a cheekier grin appearing on his face. “Do not stop now.”

She responded by shoveling a large spoonful of cold porridge in her mouth to prevent her from needing to say anything more. He chuckled. She swallowed her lump of breakfast and cleared her throat before giving him a mocking glare. “I didn't think you would stoop so low as to need such vapid validation of your skills.”

“Perhaps not,” he agreed, still chuckling to himself. “The People of Elvhenan wove magic as their birthright. To think that some of that remains in someone like me...” He paused and looked away for a moment. Then his eyes found hers again. “It has meaning, and I thank you for saying it.”

“You're welcome,” she breathed, snared utterly by the expression on his face. The moment stretched until her spoon clattered in her bowl, and they both stepped back even though they hadn't actually been all that close. Solas seemed to gather himself up, and extended a hand back towards camp.

“We should not be away so long. Someone will worry.”

“Or Varric will begin gossiping.” She walked along beside him, letting him support her elbow in a slippery spot. He was warm, she noted. Much warmer than a brisk morning exercise should have left him. But they had reached the camp, and she didn't have an opportunity to ask him why.


	4. Bump In the Night

La'vise knew she should be sleeping. But her chamber was too big and too empty and up far too many stairs. She missed her clan, she missed the closeness of the fire and the aravels with their sails rippling in the breeze, providing a steady backdrop of sound that meant _home_. This castle was stone, and the wind whistled sharply through the cracks and rents and crumbled places. She was surrounded by humans, with their derision and coarse laughter, their myriad languages and assumptions that she knew nothing but savagery.

Her footsteps echoed in the wide open Great Hall and seemed too close in the hallways in between places. The rotunda was a terrifying towering space, but a light was burning inside it. She followed it, a tiny moth in a dangerous world of fire. She found Solas there, sitting in an ornate – to her eyes – chair, a book propped on his lap, his feet stretched out before him, crossed at the ankle.

“Inquisitor?” he looked up, startled. She wondered if he could see how small she felt, standing barefoot on the cold stone, a ragged shawl around her shoulders over the oversized shirt she used for sleeping in. She wondered if he could tell how much she felt woefully unprepared for that title. She was a hunter, a free elven adult in a nation of humans where might made right and they had no use for her wealth of knowledge that didn't suit their political purposes.

“Oh, I...I didn't mean to disturb you.”

“You didn't,” he said as she turned to go. “Do you need something?”

_I need my family._

_I need closeness._

_I need my language and my food and_...

“I was just...wandering. Getting to know my way around.”

“I see.” He closed his book and laid it on the table, alongside a trio of bright, fat candles that made her envious even though she had some in her chamber. A shard whispered on the corner, a ghostly sheen of light passing across it as the flames flickered. “It is overwhelming, is it not?”

She nodded, jerky and childish. She restrained the urge to rub one foot over the other. He still seemed to sense it, and his face relaxed and creased in a small smile. He gestured for her to come in. He stood up, tall and straight and so at home here in the walls and open space. With that small smile still on his face, he offered a spot on the settee nestled against the rough plaster walls. She settled onto the soft cushions and tucked the ends of her night shirt over her feet, hiding them. Warming them. He sat at the other end, too far away to touch, and yet...

Present.

He looked around the room, gazing at the walls with a critical eye. “I thought I might cover these walls, with your permission, of course.”

His tone was deferential and she wasn't sure she wanted that with him. “Please, feel free to do whatever you'd like. You led us here. I feel like it's more yours than mine.”

The look he gave her was sharp and shrewd, but he didn't say anything. He merely nodded and looked back at the empty space.

“What will you cover it with?” she asked, small and quiet.

“Your deeds, I think.”

“What do you mean?”

He glanced at her again. There was again that small smile, creasing the corners of his eyes, tilting his lips in a smirk so easy and comfortable on his face that he nearly looked like someone else entirely. “A mural. Your acts as Inquisitor and Herald.”

“Oh. I didn't know you painted too.”

“There is much you do not know of me, Inquisitor.”

That title again. She had a name, it was being forgotten. She didn't know where she fit anymore. But his tone had changed, it was warmer, inviting. Her title in his mouth wasn't a distant thing, holding her at arm's length. It wasn't exactly an endearment, but it felt that way. “May I sleep here for a little bit?”

“Certainly, if you wish. I would not have thought you were afraid of things that bump in the night, however.”

“It isn't that...precisely. I just...” She took a deep breath and decided to say it. He might laugh, he might tease, but he might also understand, with his strange way of looking at the world. “I am unused to being alone.”

“Ahh,” he said. He stood up then and found a blanket. He draped it over her, the solicitous streak not one she thought she'd get from him. “I will go back to my reading. You are welcome to stay as long as you need to.”

She closed her eyes and before long she slept.

***

She walked into the rotunda and found him standing there, staring at the blank walls, a calculating look on his face. He turned when he heard her approach and a fire lit in his eyes that she didn't quite comprehend. “Inquisitor?”

“I'd love to hear more of your stories, Solas, if you have some time.”

“You continue to surprise me.” He crossed the space and took her arm gently. “Let us talk, but somewhere more interesting than this.”

They were in Haven again, with snow falling softly and the silence deep and welcoming. “Why here?”

“Haven is familiar. It will always be important to you.” Something in his tone was...off. But she couldn't place it.

“I suppose that's true,” she replied, following him up the stairs she'd climbed countless times, into the Chantry where she'd spent much of her time hiding from the others who looked sideways at her pointed ears and colorful face. He led her down into the basement of the church, to the cell where she'd woken.

“I watched over you while you slept, studying the Anchor.”

“How much studying was there to do?”

“Unknown magic in the hand of a mortal who had passed physically through the Fade? More than you might think. You were a mystery.” He stopped and looked at her, _searched_ her. “You still are.”

“Am I?” She felt breathless under the weight of his stare. “I don't feel particularly mysterious. That would be you.”

He chuckled, then stifled it abruptly, turning to leave the dingy cell for the open air again. They talked of the Breach, his decision to flee, her tease about where he might go. His self deprecation. Her emergence from whatever sleep she'd been in, her appearance at the right time to seal the rifts.

“Solas? Why were you angry?”

“I'm sorry?”

“When you took my hand and...helped me. You were so angry. Why?”

“The Breach threatens the whole world. How could I not be angry?” He scoffed lightly, but it was aimed at himself. “It seems you hold the key to our salvation. You had sealed it with a gesture. And right then, I felt the whole world change.”

Her heart clogged her throat. He was looking at her with such warmth and...affection. She swallowed the lump and aimed a sardonic look at him. “Felt the whole world change?”

“A figure of speech.”

“I'm aware of the metaphor. I'm more interested in _felt_.” She didn't know where this burst of confidence came from, but she didn't shy from it, advancing on him as he stood in the snow. He looked helplessly at her.

“You change...everything.”

She didn't stop to think, didn't examine why she might want to. She simply shook her head at him, bemused. Turned his jaw towards her as he looked out across the valley of Haven. “Sweet talker.”

And she kissed him.

It was simple and sweet. He turned his head to fit, his eyes were closed. She pulled away, the burst of certainty popping like a bubble. Had she gone too far? She moved away from him, not really sure if she should run or just burn up on the spot. She didn't get very far. His arms snagged her, pulled her tight to him and he devoured her. His tongue was slick against hers, his hands demanding she bend and conform to his shape. His leg was between hers, her hips angled against his. She held on for dear life, mind blank.

It was over before she knew what had happened, but then he was kissing her again. As if he couldn't stay away, as if he wanted more and more. Then he released her in a rush. “We shouldn't,” he said. “It isn't right. Not even here.”

She looked around. They were alone, the town quiet around them. Too quiet. Hadn't it burned to the ground? Wasn't it then buried under an avalanche that she herself had started? How did they even get here? _This is the Fade_ , she realized. “This isn't real.”

He smirked at her. “That's a matter of debate. Probably best discussed after you _wake up_.”

***

She opened her eyes. She was still on the settee in the rotunda and he was at his desk, his head balanced on his fist. He opened his eyes as she threw back the blanket he'd put on her. She crossed the room and slid to a stop between him and the table. She traced the sharp angle of his cheek, the line of his jaw. His look was wary, as if he knew he'd gone too far in a dream they were both present for.

“I've never done that before,” she whispered.

“Forgive me,” he whispered back. “The kiss was impulsive and ill-considered and I should not have encouraged it.”

She raised an eyebrow at him. “You say that, but you were the one who started with tongue.”

“I did no such thing!” He seemed abashed and she was suddenly delighted.

“Oh? Does it not count if it's only Fade tongue?”

He sighed and took her hand from his face, although he didn't let it go. “Things have always been easier for me in the Fade. I am not sure this is the best idea. It could lead to trouble.”

“It could,” she agreed. “But I think it will be worth it. If reality even comes close to that...”

He chuckled and held their joined hands close to his lips. “I...I need some time to think. There are considerations I should make.”

“Take all the time you need,” she said and leaned forward to place her forehead on his, her eyes on his. “I can wait.”

“Thank you.” He kissed her fingers, still in his grasp. She felt butterflies in her stomach. It was quaint and charming and the gleam in his eyes said that he knew it. “Do you feel better?”

“Much.” She grinned at him. “Now I know the only thing to go bump in the night is you.”

She left him there, his face blank with shock while some good humored cunning lurked around the edges. She affected more sway in her walk, hoping he was watching. The castle didn't seem so huge and empty anymore, and she climbed the endless stairs to her chamber with a smile on her face.


	5. Blood

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tags for this chapter: mild injury, UST

“You're bleeding,” Solas said. La'vise lifted her arm and checked where he was pointing and sure enough, her armor was shredded, her shirt split open and her skin sliced by the blade from their bandit attackers. She shrugged; it would hold until they got back to camp.

“I'll be fine,” she said.

He frowned, brows drawn together, eyes stormy. But he said nothing further and kept walking. If he walked a little closer and paid more attention to their surroundings than he usually did, she wasn't going to complain. She was never quite sure where his head was when they traveled. He spoke little, ate even less and – to her knowledge – didn't spend much time in the tent space allocated to him. She'd asked him only once about that. He'd offered her a small smile and told her he liked to wander, that he had been a wanderer most of his life.

They got back to camp and La'vise stripped off her armor as soon as she saw the perimeter guards on duty. Varric and Cassandra were bickering, not paying any attention to her at all and she ducked into her tent to grab a fresh shirt as well as her soap. No sense letting the wound stay dirty. When she ducked back out to the camp, she nearly barreled into Solas, who put his hands on her arms to hold her balanced until she got her feet under her.

“Sorry,” she muttered.

“Do you need assistance?” he asked. For a moment she was confused, and he nodded toward the cut on her side. She had to admit, it was in an awkward position to clean, but she doubted very highly that allowing him to do it for her was going to be any _less_ awkward.

“I...”

“It is no trouble,” he assured her. She nodded then and led the way to the shallow pool under one of the numerous falls that flowed through the Hinterlands. She tugged off her boots and unlaced the leather trousers she wore and waded into the water until it reached her waist. Behind her, Solas followed, having stripped off nothing more than the wraps he wore on his legs and the strange bone necklace he wore everywhere.

The water was chilly and she felt her skin prickle with goosebumps. It made the edges of her wound sting and she hissed.

“Let me see it,” Solas said, moving through the shallow water with more grace than he had any right to. Lavellan flushed, thankful the sun could be blamed for it, and turned sideways to him, lifting her shirt up around her shoulders to preserve some modicum of decency. His fingers were cool on her skin, making it pucker more. He hummed under his breath. “It should be cleaned before I heal it.”

Wordlessly she held up her soap and watched in a highly bemused state as he took it from her and dipped it in the water to wet it. The first swipe against her side made her flinch and his hand went around her opposite hip, holding her steady as he worked. She was torn between embarrassment and desire suddenly and the realization made them both worse. She'd promised to give him all the time he needed to make a decision, and she truly understood why he might be reluctant. They were elves caught up in a human conflict. He was an apostate, surviving as part of her inner circle by her own good grace and the necessity that went hand in hand with the chaos. And he had secrets. She could see them in every single line of his body.

The soap caught on the torn edges of skin and she flinched again. Solas swore under his breath. It was mildly scandalous to hear from such a typically placid man. But she was learning that was very like him, the surface ran smooth over a well that was depthless. She felt a trickle run down her side and peeked under her arm. The scabs had softened and torn open and the cut was bleeding again, a slim runnel of bright scarlet against her skin. He seemed transfixed by the sight of it, and she grew still under his gaze, hardly daring to breathe. There was some kind of hunger in his eyes, something nameless and dark and heady. She couldn't tell if it was the blood running down her side or just the expanse of bare skin. He looked like he wanted to _lick_ her. It was...horribly arousing to think about.

“Solas?” she said, abruptly breathless. His eyes snapped to hers, glittering and hard like gemstones.

“Forgive me,” he said, cupping a handful of water and letting it pour over her side to rinse. He poured water over the cut until the soap was gone and the beads of blood had stopped. She was shivering now. He shifted around so she was nearly in his embrace and his palm smoothed over the cut, glowing as he healed her. The sensation was a shock, tinged almost like sparks of static and so, so cold it was numbing. Without thought, she leaned on him a little, and he moved his free arm around her to keep her in place. Her back brushed against his chest, her hips colliding with his just the barest fraction. She remembered all of a sudden that she wore no pants.

He was hard behind her and she froze.

“I am almost finished, Inquisitor,” he said, his voice right in her ear. She closed her eyes and pretended she wasn't trembling from the heat in his tone. He had made her title a caress. He was in no way self-conscious about poking her in the back while he worked, his face wasn't even flushed. It was all she could do not to turn around and wrestle him to the ground. Only the fact that they stood waist high in water stopped her. His fingers trailed across her ribs as he drew away. It was so light she couldn't tell if it was accidental or not. He stepped away immediately and peered at his handiwork with a nod, then turned and waded back out of the water without a backward glance.

“I will let you finish bathing,” he said. She watched him go, dripping into the pool, her body heated even as she shivered. One thing was for certain. He may have asked for time to consider things, but he was not disinterested. It was certainly a good place to start.


	6. Comfort

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tags for this chapter: grief/mourning.

“The next time you have to mourn,” La'vise said, “you don't have to do it alone.”

“I'll think on it. And thank you, Inquisitor.”

Solas walked away, back towards the keep and his sanctuary in the rotunda. She watched him go, hugging herself. Was there such a thing as secondhand bereavement? She ached to comfort him, knowing well what it was to lose someone you cared about. Even if that person was a spirit. His loss put into perspective many things about him.

He saw them as people. La'vise admittedly had little experience in such things. She wasn't a mage. And the Dalish were wary of anything that came from the Fade as a precaution against demons. But she'd seen it with her own eyes. The monster they'd released from bondage transformed into a small, vulnerable woman with eyes that glowed with veilfire. She had spoken with feeling, even if her words were few that La'vise knew. But he did.

And he'd had to dissipate her. From what La'vise understood, it was akin to killing her. She couldn't imagine the pain and horror of that act. Or that he preferred to be alone afterwards.

She turned on her heel and went back into the Great Hall, seeing the eyes of her guards on her where she stood, still hugging herself, an equally small, vulnerable woman with too much heaped on her shoulders. _Inquisitor_. No, she was just an elf. An elf with feelings she didn't know what to do with. She just knew _she_ wouldn't want to be alone at a time like this. But she could wait until she was invited. Everyone dealt with grief in their own way.

***

She couldn't get it out of her mind.

Her ancestors called the land Dirthavaren – the Promise. One that had not been kept. It was an old, racial anger that beat in La'vise's veins. For less than 300 years her people had called the Dales home. And then they were scattered, chaff on the wind. Never again would the Dalish submit. And never again would the elves of Halamshiral call their world _theirs_. What little history was passed from generation to generation had sparse details. She had learned more of the history of her people from books found in human libraries across the Emerald Graves and beyond than she had at her Keeper's knee. She took copious notes and sent them back to Deshanna faithfully, taking full advantage of the fact that Josephine kept her stocked with expensive paper and good ink. This hard won knowledge would not be lost again, if she could help it.

She sat back in her chair, alone in her chamber, and set down her fountain pen, making sure it did not clatter and spill ink across her page. It was not easy to think about the land humans called the Exalted Plains. It had _hurt_ , seeing it with her own eyes. Seeing the devastation and ruin of the Promise. Solas had been with her, of course, and his eyes had been hard, the mask he wore to cover his thoughts was brittle and cracking. Cole had whispered to him, too soft to carry. Their murmuring conversation had carried on the whole time they rode through the broken, tortured land of her forebears.

Cassandra had kept silent on the matter, for which La'vise was grateful. Although she caught the Seeker's eyes suspiciously wet as they made camp near what was obviously an elven ruin, now nothing more than a few stones outlining a foundation. La'vise had not slept well in that place. She didn't think anyone else had either.

Despair hung over that land, as sere as the grass. The stench of smoke and blood and death was an inescapable miasma. Not even the roaming herds of halla, nor the guardian wolves watching over them, could brighten her spirits there. Everywhere they went there were battles. The warring factions of the Orlesians bled over into the constant struggle against the risen undead. Solas said the Veil was desperately thin, that spirits restlessly pressed against it, piled on each other like so many bodies in a mass grave.

She hated it. She hated the land stolen from her people and she hated the humans who had done it, still fighting over its carcass 700 years later like savages. They called her the Herald of Andraste, who was their Maker's Bride, who had made the Promise. And all she could think about when they were there was how to place her feet carefully so she did not trip over the bones of the People.

And now Solas had lost his friend there too. She covered her face with her hands and wept.

***

The rotunda was quiet when she entered it, many hours later. She carried a book with her that she'd found on one of their journeys, a journal written in a hand she could barely decipher. She was getting better at it, but she needed help from time to time, and she knew Solas could do that.

Her heart was heavy, she didn't really want to disturb him. But she needed this to send back to her Keeper. He turned to her as soon as he heard her enter. He was standing near a blank wall, the riot of colors from his murals absent in this spot. She wondered if he was contemplating the next one, or just needed the emptiness of that patch to reflect the emptiness of his sorrow.

“What do you need of me?” he asked, as polite and gentle as always. There was no sign that he was still affected by the spirit's death, but she knew him well enough now to know that he was a master of hiding things.

“I have...I'm having trouble with some translations. I wondered if you could help me, if it's not too much trouble?”

“It is no trouble,” he assured her. He held out his hand for her book and she crossed to him. As he took it, she could feel his eyes on her. “Are you all right?”

Her eyes shot to his and she realized she hadn't washed her face or combed her hair. She felt gritty and wrung out like a rag. She must look it, too. She flushed with something almost like shame at letting him see her so broken, but his smile was soft. He brushed his thumb across her cheek, wiping away the tears that still lingered on her skin.

“You have been crying,” he said.

“I'm sorry.”

“For what?”

“I failed you. The only thing you have asked of me, and I couldn't...I couldn't...”

Solas set the book down on a table and took her into his arms. This wasn't how she thought this would go. But she could not deny that the feel of him holding her, comforting her, was _good_. She relaxed into him, and in turn, she felt him relax into her.

“It is not your fault,” he whispered into her hair. “There was little we could do. And what we could, we did. That is more meaningful to me than anything. You have been a true friend to me, and I treasure it.”

She shuddered against him, and his arms came around her tighter. She didn't know how long they stood there like that, but finally her tears eased, the burden of their mutual sadness made lighter by each other. She tipped back her head to look at him and found a lopsided grin. “Is that all I am?”

He smiled back and wiped her cheeks again. “No, La'vise, that is not all you are. You are much more than a friend.”

The moment stretched, and she thought perhaps he might kiss her, but he didn't. Still, the warmth in his gaze poured over her and she felt better. She could see in his eyes that he did too. All at once she remembered why she had come to the rotunda in the first place and stepped out of his arms, feeling the cold loss immediately. “My book...”

Solas drew her back and wrapped her in his embrace again. There was something in his expression that she couldn't quite name. If she didn't know any better, she would call it greed, but that was simply ridiculous. “It can wait. Let me hold you.”


	7. Raindrops

It always rained on the Storm Coast, and why not? That _is_ how it got its name. Still, the driving downpour had turned what should have been a swift route inland into a quagmire of mud and sliding wet stone and La'vise was thoroughly irritated and soaked through to boot.

And now they had arrived at their camp on the beach, finally having found what they were looking for, only to discover that the incessant storm had washed away one of their tents, leaving just two for three men and a woman to share. She was furious, although mostly at herself. The requisition officer had told her they needed sturdier tents and she hadn't listened.

No, that wasn't it. She _had_ listened, she simply hadn't managed to find the component parts they needed. And that just sparked a whole new conflagration of frustration. Why was this even her job? She was the Inquisitor. They were supposed to have scouts for this sort of thing, weren't they?

“One of us will have to share with her,” she heard Varric say over the rain.

“I won't keep the Inquisitor up with my snoring,” Blackwall said stoutly, determinedly _not_ taking this particular hit for the team. She pretended she didn't hear them and looked over the rest of the requisition orders at the dripping wet table. Still, she kept an ear on the conversation.

“I will stay with her,” Solas said, in a tone that both brooked no argument and managed to somehow convey profound disappointment that the other two could not get past their own fragile sensibilities to share a tent with their leader for one night.

Varric muttered something under his breath that sounded rather like a joke about close quarters and like minded elves. When she turned away from the table to see them still hunched over each other like bandits plotting their next heist, she saw Solas frowning at the dwarf. He did not retort, however. La'vise decided it was time to break up this little meeting of male minds before it got too out of hand.

“If you gentlemen are finished,” she announced in a loud voice, making two of them jump and one of them smirk, “I'm choosing one of these tents and I'm getting in it. And I won't be leaving it unless the sky decides to fall upon us along with the rain.”

“Yes, your Worship,” said Blackwall.

“Right,” said Varric. He looked like he was trying to hold in a laugh, and she wondered if he guessed more was going on than was public knowledge. Well, he wasn't entirely wrong, but he wasn't exactly right either. There was _something_ going on, she just wasn't sure what it was.

Solas said nothing at all, of course, but he did quirk his eyebrows at her before turning away from the camp to wander down the beach. She gave an exasperated sigh and ducked into the canvas tent with her pack. _Men_. Did they honestly forget that she was born Dalish, that she had shared less than private quarters with people her whole life before now?

She proceeded to strip out of her soaked leather armor and clothes and change into something dry. She knew she should enjoy it for however long it lasted, since it wasn't like her wet things were going to improve by morning in this weather. She tried to read, but all she had were the collected journals of the Grey Wardens they'd been finding. It wasn't very pleasant reading and she gave up on it after only a few pages. It was getting too dark to read anyway.

She sat up on her bedroll and listened to the rain. If nothing else, the sound of it falling on the canvas drowned out all other sounds, even the waves crashing to shore not far away. She was sure to be able to sleep through Blackwall's snoring if it came to it. It was therefore startling when Solas ducked into the tent, turning quickly to secure the door of it before he took a single step inside.

He cast a glance her way. As much as he might have pretended in front of the others, she was fairly certain he was in no way displeased to be sharing her tent with her. He waved his hand and a small globe of light appeared above his palm, highlighting the bold angles of his face. He was as soaked as she had been earlier, but on him it didn't do anything to detract from his stark beauty. She didn't know whether to revel in that or be further disgruntled that she was a bedraggled mess.

“You are staring, Inquisitor,” he said softly as he lobbed the mage light towards the ceiling and began unwrapping himself from his own wet armor.

She made a face at him. She wasn't about to tell him that raindrops had clung to his eyelashes like diamonds. Or that the sheen of droplets made his skin more luminous in the glow of his mage light. Instead, she said the next thing that came to mind, which after the fact wasn't much better.

“I have a name, Solas. You're allowed to use it. Especially considering you've had your tongue in my mouth. Even if it was just in the Fade.”

He paused, half tangled in sodden wool from his jacket. For a moment his eyes flared with heat. He stripped off the jacket and the belt that went with it. He held the wet armor in front of him and _froze_ it, shaking it so the ice crystals dropped off before melting again. In astonishment, she watched him do the same to hers. They would still be somewhat damp in the morning, just from the ambient humidity, but she was more grateful than she could say that at least her clothes and armor wouldn't be sopping wet. Then he hung them up from hooks in the framing pole of the tent. When he turned back to her, the heat was gone, but a teasing glint had replaced it. He inclined his head towards her.

“La'vise,” he drawled. In his polite and well modulated accent it sounded far richer than it had any right to, calling up the numerous variations of meaning her name had. _Like fire_. _One who burns_. _The flame that's given_. She wanted to squirm and felt a contrary inclination to tell him to go back to calling her Inquisitor. He had a talent for tying her up in knots, and it seemed he knew it too. She was so thoroughly distracted she didn't notice he was taking off his shirt until she saw a glimpse of skin at his waist as he lifted it.

“Solas! You could have said something.” She whirled around so she was facing the wall. His chuckle was barely louder than the rain hitting the tent. It was too warm suddenly in the confined space and she desperately tried to get her blush under control before he saw it. He was infuriating.

“Is that truly necessary?” he asked lightly, amused by her burst of propriety. “If, as you say...”

She made an impatient sound and landed on a retort that was both appropriate for her vexation and completely true. “I'm just trying to give you the space you wanted to have. For consideration.”

“Ah, I see.” Oddly, there was no sign of the previous teasing in his answer. There was a whisper of fabric on skin and the shadows moved across the wall of the tent as he did. She noticed too late that the shadows were moving closer to her. And then he was there, crouched behind her back, not quite touching. “Thank you, La'vise.”

She shuddered. He spoke right in her ear, his breath tickling it, his voice a rumble. This wasn't teasing, this was pure temptation. He had to know, didn't he? He stayed there, patiently waiting to see what she was going to do. She peeked over her shoulder at him, only to find him a hairsbreadth away, his skin gleaming in the mage light. He hadn't replaced his shirt. What she'd heard was him drying off his head. Now his eyelashes were all clumped together. It added fuel to her agitated state that it made him look all the more endearing.

“You're not making that easy,” she whispered. His eyes crinkled and his lips curled. It wasn't a grin so much as an overall change in his entire demeanor. And she was hopelessly enthralled.

“Am I not?” he replied.

“You said it could lead to trouble.”

“I did.”

“I wouldn't want to push.”

“I appreciate that.”

“But...?” She leaned back away from him to catch her breath, which felt mildly silly. It wasn't like he was crowding her in any way. He remained right where he was, balanced perfectly on the balls of his feet. He was warm, as she'd discovered only a mage could be, and she felt it radiate across the tiny distance between them.

“I have not forgotten the taste of you on my tongue,” he said finally. Her breath stopped dead in her throat. His words painted a much more vibrant mental picture than she needed right now. Even as she noticed that he looked sad about it.

“What does that mean, Solas?” she managed.

He leaned forward, his muscle control nearly as powerful as her need for him. He stopped so close she could see violet in the gray of his eyes. She could count his freckles if she was in any way capable of higher thought. He drew the moment out, letting it build until it was unbearable before he let his mouth touch hers. She might have squeaked, she wasn't sure. All she knew was the next moment she'd leaned into him, deepening the kiss. She wanted to devour him, to _be_ devoured. She wanted to knock him off balance, pull him down with her to the bedroll, finish the job of undressing him. Maybe with her teeth.

Of course, she did none of those things. Aside from the fact that it wasn't in her nature to be so bold, he hadn't said that she could. Her hands ached with how tightly she kept them clenched together in her lap. When he finally pulled away, she saw that he was holding himself tensely too, as if to prevent all the things she wanted from happening as well. The patter of rain on the tent was loud in the silence that followed. She was glad of it, it drowned out the static in her brain from his kiss.

“You should get some sleep, Inquisitor.” He stood up before she could reply and crossed to the other side, hidden by their hanging armor. She made a rueful face and let out a breath as slowly as she could so it didn't sound like she was sighing.

“I'm not sure this is a good idea, you know,” she said as she carefully laid back on her bedroll. She felt jumpy and skittish and...frustrated.

“Sharing this tent? Why is that?” he asked, too calm and collected for her peace of mind. The mage light suddenly extinguished, leaving the tent dim with only the faint glow from outside to light it.

“You're a powerful temptation,” she said, screwing up her courage. His answer was a snort. She lay on her back, staring at the ceiling of the tent. The rest of the camp was quiet. The storm was almost lulling with no other sounds to break it up. She was nearly asleep when a drop hit her in the face and she sat up with a disgusted noise.

“What's the matter?” he asked.

“There's a leak.”

“Are you certain?”

“Of course I am, it dripped on me,” she exclaimed. As she spoke, another drop hit her nose, rolling off the end of it to tickle her top lip. She sputtered to blow it away and then scrubbed her face with her hands. She nearly missed his soft laugh.

“Shall we switch places?”

“That wouldn't be very fair to you. Not like you could keep up a barrier all night.”

“Hmm, I suppose that is true.” She heard rustling. “You could come over here and share with me.”

“I don't know if I can keep my hands to myself,” she admitted with a bit of a whine. He outright laughed. Another drop landed in her hair, working its way to her scalp and making it itch. She was fully aware that she could just as easily curl into a ball at the foot of her bedroll to avoid the leak, but she really didn't want to. She would wake up cramped and grumpy and that wouldn't help anyone. She glared at the tent ceiling, but of course in the relative dark she couldn't see any holes. Another drop landed on her, right between her eyes. “Ugh, fine.”

She crossed the tent before more rain drops could make her miserable. Solas had scooted aside in his bedroll to make room for her. In the shadows, he didn't look perturbed at the situation at all. She slid next to him, careful to keep her extremities to herself. He pulled the top of the roll over them both and settled on his side. They were very close and she was burning up with something like mortification.

“I am grateful you are giving me the time I asked for,” he whispered into her ear, making her shiver. “But I will not take it amiss if you cannot keep your hands to yourself.”

As he spoke, his own smoothed down her back and over her hip. She stilled under his touch, both soothed and ultimately more turned on than she had been after his kiss. His easy acceptance of her right there in his space made something occur to her.

“Solas...”

“Yes, La'vise?”

“Did you make the tent leak so I'd come over here?”

“That would be a rather juvenile trick, do you not think?”

“That's not an answer.”

“Do you think me so juvenile?”

She rolled over so she was facing him, aware that his hand had glided against her body the whole time. “I think you have the ability to be, yes.”

His smile was roguish in the dim light. He pressed a kiss to her forehead, then her nose and cheekbones. Hardly with her own knowledge, her hands crept up his chest to dig into the material of his thin shirt. He waited until she had drawn a deep enough breath to chastise once more and then he swallowed any sound she might make with his lips on hers. The kiss was slow and even, but it was hot and needy too. She wanted to wrap her leg around him, she wanted to let him do whatever he was inclined to do. It was _embarrassing_ how much she wanted him.

When he pulled away at last, he ran light fingers over her hair, tucking a loose lock behind her ear. “Go to sleep.”

“You did, didn't you?” she accused in a whisper. “You made it drip on me so I would have an excuse to come over here.”

“That would be most unbecoming of the Inquisitor's companion.”

She thumped the heel of her hand against his chest, shocking a laugh from him. “That doesn't mean you didn't do it.”

“I know. Goodnight, La'vise.” He tucked her against his chest, his chin on top of her head. His heat bathed her, made her feel safe and protected. She relaxed into his arms but couldn't let it pass without _some_ acknowledgment.

“Humph,” she chided. “Goodnight, you harellan.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Harellan - by strict definition it means trickster, traitor or rebel. Poor La'vise doesn't know just how well she hits that nail on the head.
> 
> This collection is now (mostly) brought up to date with the series. Further chapters will be new material.


	8. Hands Against the Wall

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tags for this chapter: minor physical restraint, UST.

They were in rather tight quarters for a fight. _Confounded dwarves_ , La'vise groused to herself. Why did they always have to build their places underground? The archways between cave and...whatever this was...were narrow, and the spiders outnumbered them. Solas has cast barriers on all of them, but that didn't do much against a spray of sticky cobwebs. Blackwall was laying them out with his sword, bashing into them with his shield, but that only attracted the attention of two. She heard Varric give a disgusted shout as he reloaded Bianca. Which left her and Solas in the rear of the party, still jammed together in the entrance.

She didn't see it, but Solas evidently had, and before the spit of webbing could hit either one of them, he'd thrown himself bodily against her, pinning her to the side of the archway, his hands sliding down her arms to cover her wrists where she stood, holding her in place. The spider's attack went harmlessly by.

La'vise wasn't paying attention to that, however. She was staring at the pale skin of the back of Solas's hand covering her own, tendons straining against his skin, smudged with dirt and spider ichor. It was often a two person job to collect that junk for her requisition officer, and he had been the one to volunteer, claiming no fear of the monstrous arachnids, alive or dead. The moment stretched and the sounds of fighting subsided as Varric and Blackwall finished off the last of the creatures. And Solas still held her against the wall, crowding her from shoulder to hips.

She wanted to just stay there and revel in how well he had her covered. He was tall, and had substantial reach. And he had pressed himself to her, flush the whole length of her back. She was reminded of how he had held her in her sleep, how he had _tricked_ her into sleeping next to him in the first place. Not that she was really complaining. It was all she could do not to push back against him, curling into him. The fact that this was neither the time nor place for it was all that stopped her. She turned her head so she could see his face over her shoulder.

“Solas?”

“Are you all right?” he asked. She thought she detected an undertone of more than just worry and shifted on her feet. She moved against the solid wall of his body and made a startling realization. The pressure growing against her back was _not_ his belt. She blushed. This dance between them would have to come to an end sooner or later. It seemed she was not the only one being tied into knots about it. It had grown steadily more intense since the night they'd shared a tent. She didn't know if that was a fear of getting too entangled with her, the woman currently in the midst of attempting to save the world, or if it was a subtle ploy to kill her with anticipation. With him it could go either way, it seemed.

“Solas,” she repeated, but it came out much lower and breathier. He made a choked off noise in his throat and abruptly released her wrists and stepped away.

They stared at each other for a moment, aware that both Blackwall and Varric were watching them. Solas nodded as if he'd made a decision and stalked off. La'vise checked the spider bodies to see if there was anything worth collecting from them. She had nearly all the ichor she needed for the requisition. Her hands were steady as she collected the last bit, thankfully without needing any help. When she stood up, Varric was eyeing her with his typical roguish glint.

“Do the two of you need a minute?” he teased.

La'vise frowned at him, and he laughed. “Actually, yeah, we might. I need to get some things straight with him.”

Varric's smile faded as he realized she sounded angry, not discomposed as he likely hoped. It was never too soon to dash his plans to use her as fictional fodder. “Right. Hey, Hero,” he called to Blackwall, “come walk with me back to camp.”

La'vise shook her head. Subtlety was not Varric's strong suit unless it was directly in his favor. Still, it served notice to Solas that she wanted to talk and he stood by watching the other two leave, arms crossed on his chest and face neutral.

“Solas? What was that about?” she asked as soon as they were alone. He came over to her slowly, a distinct lightness in his step that betrayed more than she thought he knew. He wasn't neutral at all. He was devilish.

“I need you to be more specific, Inquisitor.” She suppressed a shiver at the way he said her title. She had never known anyone who could make such a respectable term sound so...personal. Like it was an endearment. It suddenly didn't matter how much she hated it. If he kept calling her that in that particular tone, she could live with it happily. The corner of his mouth lifted as he watched her, and she suspected he knew _precisely_ what he was doing.

“Pushing me up against the wall like that,” she said with an attempt at a more severe expression. She had no idea if it worked. His own slid further from polite to somewhat predatory and he kept advancing at a steady pace. She stepped back almost instinctively, retreating until her back hit the wall of the cave. A smirk curved his lips as he stopped within inches of her. His fingers trailed down her arms so lightly she didn't feel it through her armor. Then he took her wrists and lifted her arms up next to her head, braced solidly against her without touching her anywhere else. She could escape his grip if she wanted to, and that was the problem. She didn't want to. More damning, he knew it.

“I do not believe you are complaining,” he said softly. A sound escaped her, something low and gasping and utterly betraying to herself. He smirked a little wider. “What a _fascinating_ bit of information I have gathered.”

“And what will you do with it?” she asked, breathless and waiting.

He cocked his head at her, the angles of his jaw catching what little light bled into the cave from the outside. “I am not certain just yet.” He leaned a little closer, pressed on her wrists a little harder. “Further research is perhaps warranted.”

La'vise shamelessly tried to close the distance between them, aiming for a kiss. They had shared so few, and each one memorable. The need to add another was rapidly growing unbearable. He backed away, still keeping her pressed against the wall of the cave. Then he let her go entirely and began to pick his way out of the cave to the open air.

“Fenedhis lasa,” she ground out.

Solas let out a rolling laugh, ending on a sort of giggling snort. “What a mouth you have, Inquisitor. If I did not know better, I would say you are quite frustrated.”

“Whose fault is that?” she growled, following him out of the dark.

He looked down at her with a light, teasing expression. “Mine. And in due time, I shall rectify the situation.”

Frustration was abruptly replaced with relief. This dance _was_ a game to him, and while it infuriated her at times, it was also too delicious to rush. All right, she'd let him play it, see how long they could draw it out until they were both ready to explode from it. If nothing else, it served as a good distraction from the strain of her role, the constant battle to stay composed and competent at her job. Still, it couldn't hurt to nudge things along and she skipped over to him, intending nothing more than a peck on his cheek.

She got as far as snagging his arm before he could get too far ahead of her and rising up to her tiptoes, lips already pursed to kiss him lightly, when he turned. His hand cupped the back of her head and he kissed her with such ferocity she couldn't even make a sound. His mouth was hot on hers, his tongue pressed against her lips until she opened them, letting him in, letting him muffle the weak whimper that escaped as he slanted his head and deepened the kiss. His fingers were knotted into her loose hair, holding her in place with a terrifyingly arousing simplicity.

Then he let her go and pulled away from her as if nothing untoward had happened. He continued to pick his way carefully out of the cave. She just stood there a moment to collect herself. To remember how to breathe. To wipe the stupid grin from her face before the others saw it.

She jogged from the cave after him, and shoved him with her shoulder as she passed him by. He'd earned a point or two in his favor for this round. It was high time she started earning her own. He met her challenging gaze with a small smile and knew the game was engaged in full. And before long they caught up to the others with no further discussion needed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can I just say that I love the curse 'fenedhis lasa'? It's the Thedosian equivalent to 'eat a bag of dicks' and the fact that Solas is the one in canon to say it makes me laugh so hard.


	9. Pop

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tags for this chapter: alcohol use.

Revelry was not uncommon in Skyhold. They were alive, they were safe. There had been no reports of movement by either the Venatori or by Corypheus himself in nearly a week. The weather was fair and the civil war in Orlais was over – at least for the moment – since La'vise and the Inquisition had moved into the Exalted Plains. Soon there would be actual peace talks at Halamshiral. She was nervous about her role in that, but she was also looking forward to having one less threat looming over her head. She was not so naive as to think she, a young Dalish elf, held any sway over the political machinations of a nation like Orlais, but the Inquisition as a whole did.

Tonight's excuse for revelry was Dorian's nameday. In honor of it, the entire Inner Circle had gathered at the Herald's Rest, determined to drink Cabot dry. Josephine had already had a quiet word with La'vise about removing some of the rarer stocks to the cellar where she stored her other collected bottles, as well as a word with Cabot promising a new shipment of barrels before month's end.

La'vise wandered through the tavern, quietly enjoying the noise and toasts and general drunken behavior of her comrades. But she missed Solas. He had been by, of course, with an artful toast dripping with symbolism and amiable irony that he should be friends with a Tevinter mage, and they'd all laughed at his dry wit. But somehow in her rounds of speaking with the others, he'd disappeared.

Iron Bull caught her eye and, with a sly grin, nodded his horns towards the outside, away from the noise and press of people. She grinned at him and sauntered to the bar to see what Cabot had left.

“What can I get for you, your Worship?”

“Something sweet, two mugs, the whole bottle if possible?”

The dwarf gave her a deep, inscrutable look before the ghost of a smile graced his face. He reached under the bar and pulled out a bottle dark with dust. “Been saving it just for you, Inquisitor.”

“My thanks, Cabot.” She looked at the label and saw it was an early press of Nevarran apples mixed with summer grapes. It would be both tart and sweet, but not cloyingly so. She smiled again at him and moved on next to where Dorian was sprawled rather inelegantly against the bar, his hand wrapped tight around a stein of ale. She did not envy her friend the headache he was going to have after several bottles of wine in and of themselves. But now he was going to compound it with ale? She shook her head and made sure he saw her before she spoke.

“Dorian, enansala sul ma sa'vunin. Take care not to ruin your entire image, now.”

He grinned blearily at her and leaned over to press a messy kiss to her cheek. “Thank you, my dear. I will assume that was some kind of well wish. Your language is gibberish, you know. Off to find our 'postate?”

“What makes you think that?” she rejoined coyly, ignoring his drunkenly rude, if somewhat accurate, assessment of Elvish. He laughed and pointed at her hands.

“Two cugs...cups. Mugs?”

She returned his kiss, and gave him a gentle push back against the bar. “You spend too much time with Iron Bull to be so observant while drunk.”

“Oh no,” he said in something he probably thought was a whisper that failed utterly. “Not nearly enough.”

La'vise bit her lip to keep from laughing. That was more than she needed to know. Bull caught her eye again and he was smirking now. She shook her head once more and took her leave of the tavern, standing outside and listening for a moment as the raucous noise was muffled by the door as it closed. She looked across the upper courtyard and out towards the outer wall. She could see a shadow against the part that was broken where it faced the valley below. This time her smile was soft and no one saw it.

“Solas?” she called when she reached the rubble pile from the damaged wall. He looked down at her from where he was leaning against a more solid portion. Even in the dark she could see how the planes of his face shifted as he brightened with welcome.

“What brings you out here, Inquisitor?”

She held up the bottle and mugs and grinned. “This. Care to share?”

He took the bottle from her outstretched hand and she threaded a loop of her belt through the handles of the mugs so she could have her hands free to clamber up the stones. He was watching her with some attentiveness. She was nimble, but she would admit she was often reckless. That said, he rarely chastised her for it, and merely watched her to make sure she didn't fall. When she gained the upper part where he was waiting, she saw he had turned his attention to the bottle, wiping away the dust from the label to read it in the starlight.

“Nevarran cider?”

“Should be sweet,” she said. “But just a little bit tart too. The best of both worlds.”

“Indeed.”

He twisted the muselet that held on the cork with a deftness that made her stop and wonder how he knew how to do that. With equally conscientious pressure, he pushed the cork at an angle until it gave with a quiet _pop_. Not a drop was spilled, and she was impressed. She freed the mugs from her belt and held them while he poured. Then he tucked the bottle on a reasonably level stone and took one of them, raising it to his nose first. He made a pleased sound and sipped it. And all the while she watched him, completely entranced. She hadn't actually expected him to take her up on it; he so rarely imbibed.

“How is it?” she asked, breathless all of a sudden.

“Sweet and tart, as expected. Ir enaste.” Something in his tone told her he wasn't speaking of the drink in his hand. When she met his eyes, she found them locked on hers. “Mar ladarash.”

“Mar ladarash,” she whispered, raising the mug to her lips almost in a reflex. The tart-sweet flavor hit her tongue and made her nose tingle from the carbonation in it. He was still watching her, she noticed. She took a deeper drink, giving herself time to get her whirling mind under control. It was hardly the first time she and Solas had been alone together. It was hardly the first time they shared a drink together, for that matter. So what was so different about this time?

She drained the mug without quite realizing she had and he took it from her. But he didn't pour another. Instead he reached for her hand and tugged her closer to him. She'd already had a few drinks with the rest of her companions in the tavern, and for all that she prided herself on her agility, she wasn't exactly light on her feet at this point. She stumbled into him, but it seemed that was what he wanted. He wrapped his free arm around her and before she knew it, he was kissing her.

It wasn't a particularly passionate kiss, but it was urgent just the same. She was dazed by the time he let her go, although he kept his arm around her to keep her close. “It is sweeter still from your lips, La'vise.”

“Shut up and kiss me again,” she said, aiming for something like command. She didn't think she succeeded, but it didn't look like he cared.

His mouth quirked in the shadows, a smirk all too telling that he'd seen through her bluster. “Ma nuvenin.”

The bottle was forgotten for a long time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did you know the cage that holds on a champagne cork has a name? And that name is muselet? I did not until I wrote this. Thank you, Iron_Angel, for esoteric trivia.
> 
> Enansala sul ma sa'vunin - Many blessings upon you this day  
> Ir enaste - I approve  
> Mar ladarash - To your health  
> Ma nuvenin - as you say/as you wish  
> As always, courtesy of Fenxshiral's Project Elvhen.
> 
> In other news, we made it through 2020. May 2021 be better. Happy new year.


	10. Rip

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tags for this chapter: injury, hurt/comfort

The arrow impacted La'vise's shoulder and she stumbled backwards, into the murky water, disturbing the silt and waking more of the undead. She cried out and tried to lift her arm to draw her bow again, but it was no use. It hadn't even felt like it went that deep, but it must have been in just the right spot to render her whole arm useless.

“Fenedhis,” she swore. She was rapidly growing to detest the Fallow Mire. She wondered why they even had anyone here at all. It stank, it never stopped raining and there were _undead_ _crawling up from the water_.

Her curse had drawn Solas's attention from his casting. His look of worry morphed swiftly into one of rage as something clawed at her from behind. She threw back the elbow of her uninjured arm, striking withered skin and bones. It crunched unpleasantly under her assault and she felt disgust wash through her as equally as the pain from her wound jolting through her body. A blast of ice went past her face and the skeletal creature flew off her, shattering into splinters when it slapped back into the water. She nodded briefly in Solas's direction and drew her off hand dagger, tossing her bow aside. She couldn't shoot, not like this. But she was far from helpless. She climbed back onto the island to continue the fight. There was still a demon to deal with, after all.

In the end, she took the most grievous injury. Which, she supposed, she should be thankful for. She leaned against the tall beacon pillar while Cassandra and Varric looted whatever they could find from the soggy bundles the corpses left behind. It was distasteful work at the best of times, which these were plainly not.

Solas knelt next to her, examining the arrow in her shoulder. “I'm sorry, Inquisitor, I must cut away your armor.”

She rolled her eyes at his politely deferential tone. Their relationship had shifted, but into what she wasn't quite sure. Sometimes he was open and affectionate and even devilishly playful. Other times he was this stoic, private man who never let anyone see what he was thinking.

Before she could say as much, he pulled a thin blade from somewhere and began slicing through her padded leather jacket and the shirt beneath it, baring the wound. The serrated arrowhead was sunk into the hollow between collarbone and ball joint, thankfully just to the first sets of barbs. Still, each breath felt like her arm was being sawed off. She inhaled through her nose as he worked, her eyes on his face to keep her from looking at the injury itself. She didn't want to think about what foul things were leeching into her blood from an arrow shot by an undead _thing_ from this horrid place.

His eyes met hers and for a brief second they warmed. He spoke softly. “This will hurt.”

“I know,” she gritted out. “Just...rip it out.”

He frowned, clearly not liking that option, but this far from camp, without the proper tools at hand, he didn't have much choice. Pushing it through would be no better and double the number of wounds. “Seeker,” he called to Cassandra. “Might I ask your assistance?”

“Certainly.” The tall woman came to the pillar and looked La'vise over with her too critical gaze.

“Please hold her steady.”

Cassandra's strong hands held her at uninjured shoulder and against her chest, pressing her back against the pillar. La'vise closed her eyes and waited.

“Are you ready, Inquisitor?” Solas asked.

“Ye...aahh!” He hadn't waited, instead giving the arrow a sharp yank just as she drew breath to answer.

“Let it out slowly,” he said. She opened her eyes to see him nod his thanks to the Seeker, who left them be again. Solas took her hands in his and chafed them briskly without moving more than her forearms to spare her further discomfort. “Breathe slowly.”

“Little late for that advice, Solas,” she snapped, although there was no real heat behind it. He gave her a lopsided smile and returned his attention to the tear in her shoulder.

“Better to do it when you were not expecting it. You did not tense.”

“Fair enough.” A wave of fatigue followed on the heels of the battle adrenaline and she slumped against the pillar with it. She ignored the fact that some of her exhaustion was being helped along by pain. She could feel her blood pooling under her shirt now, dripping down her side. “Are you in any shape to heal it or should we just bind it for now?”

He looked around, taking stock of where they were, calculating the walk back to camp. “I will heal what I can.”

He braced one hand on the back of her wounded shoulder and pressed the palm of the other against the hole in her skin. She bit off another curse that quickly turned to a whimper as icy cold fingers of his magic knit her back together. It wasn't long before he was pallid with the effort and she was clenching her teeth against the sting. Anyone who said magic was easy healing had obviously never had it done for deep tissue. They both panted for air when he pulled his hands away.

“You should eat something,” he said.

She let her head loll against the pillar and smirked at him. “You should too.”

He made a face and she nearly laughed. It was well known that Solas did _not_ like travel rations. And all they had was ram jerky, which wasn't her favorite either. He tore a strip of it in half and gave her a piece. She gnawed on it methodically, watching Varric and Cassandra bicker on the other side of the muddy little island in the midst of the pervading swamp.

Solas turned around and sat next to her, close enough for her to lean on him. So she did, taking the silent offer for what it was worth. He rarely allowed such intimacies where anyone could see. They ate in silence that would be called companionable if not for the surroundings. Before she knew it, she was half asleep there in the mud, veilfire lighting everything in a green glow, the stink of the swamp drowning out even the smell of the ram jerky. Her shoulder still hurt, and she could tell that whatever healing he'd managed was superficial at best. Enough to stop the bleeding and get her back to camp. No doubt someone would force a potion one her as soon as they were there.

“Come, Inquisitor, we have rested long enough. Our companions' bickering will draw more of the undead if we do not move on.”

La'vise sighed and let him haul her to her feet. He picked up her bow and carefully maneuvered it onto her back so she didn't have to move her arm too much before wrapping his own around her waist to support her as she stumbled. Times like this she missed halla, even with the thrill of having his arm around her in public. Halla could handle this mud and murk. But they didn't have any and there was no way she'd ever bring _horses_ here; their hooves would get rot. She was not looking forward to the walk back to camp.

“Another shirt ruined,” she murmured as they plodded along, keeping their eyes sharp on the sides of the narrow paths and rickety walkways that traversed the mire. “At this rate, I'll have more rags than clothes.”

“And you chastise me for wearing leather under my armor.”

“Isn't it horribly uncomfortable?” She fell into an argument they'd had before, although without any of the heat of irritation as last time. It was a comfort to her, this routine dispute, as comfortable as an old foot wrap.

“It is worth it when I do not get shot,” he retorted pointedly.

“Easy for you to say, you're a mage. Your barrier takes the brunt. And you're never in the thick of things anyway.”

“That barrier covers you too. But while I am capable of many things, I cannot save you from your own recklessness.”

She chuckled and leaned her head against him once she knew the others weren't looking. They stopped walking for a moment. He pressed a barely there kiss to her hair and she made a face. She had to be filthy. He never seemed bothered by that, however. She tipped back her head to see his face. He was smiling at her, she returned it warmly. “Thank you, Solas.”

“Of course, La'vise.”


	11. First Time**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tags for this chapter: explicit sexual content.

“Don't go.” She caught his arm, feeling it tense under her fingers as he tried to leave. She hated the distance between them, hated the insecurity of not knowing where she stood. She had enough troubles without worrying about her heart.

“It would be kinder in the long run.”

“Why?”

He turned back to her, the setting sunlight glinting in his eyes. His mouth quirked sideways, almost a smile. He always smiled when she asked questions, even the childish ones. He traced a finger along her hair, slipping it over her ear. “Because you are too young and I am not. You deserve better, ma siusha.”

 _My sweet_ , he called her. Is that how he saw her? Sweet and untouched and innocent?

“I'm not a child. I don't want anyone else. Just you.”

He sighed. “I should walk away. You should let me. But losing you would...”

The change in him was abrupt, some inner demon wrestled back and a decision made. His lips on hers were hot, his arms around her tight enough that she swayed with him. She clung as he rocked her, his kiss burning even after he'd pulled away to brush his nose against hers. He rested his forehead on the slope of her brow.

“Ar lath ma, La'vise,” he said softly, almost painfully. “May it damn us both.”

“Solas,” she chided, “what kind of thing to say is that?”

The look he gave her seared into her soul. She didn't know if she should be glad or weep at it. “I'm a foolish man, ma siusha. Foolish and rash.”

“But are you my fool?” she asked, keeping him within the circle of her arms, desperate to hold him until he answered. Some wall was breaking down in him, for all his foreboding words. Some defense was shattering, leaving him bare and vulnerable. He tipped up his head from her brow and kissed it.

“Yes,” he whispered against her skin, and his grip on her tightened more, making her shift on her feet so one leg ended up between his, their hips bumping into each other. “Yes, I am yours.”

She grinned up at him and boldly let her hands fall from his waist to the curve of his backside. She bit her lip as she grabbed him and watched the morose expression leave his face as something far more salacious crept over it.

“Good,” she murmured. “Will you stay?”

“You do not seem intent upon letting me go,” he pointed out, his voice more playful.

“Are you complaining?”

“No. I am not.”

In one smooth motion, his hands slid down her back, over her butt and under it, and then she was being lifted. She squawked and flailed, the unexpected maneuver throwing her completely into shock. He chuckled as he carried her back into her chamber and straight to the bed.

He stripped her quickly, almost as if he didn't want to give himself time to second guess it. She didn't stop him, tugging on his belt and sweater and the laces of his patched trousers with feverish hands. When they were both naked, he climbed over her body, settling himself between her legs. He kissed her again, but it held none of the heat it had before. This was soft and lazy and her mind went blank with it.

So blank she didn't immediately register that one of his hands had moved down her body, mapping her contours and curves. His thumb brushed against her nipple and she gasped, breaking away from his lips. He smirked, playful and sly. He watched her face contort as he did it again, the callouses along his thumb and palm rasping on her skin.

“Tell me what you want, ma siusha,” he murmured, lowering his head to follow the path of his hand.

“I don't...know...” she breathed out as his lips ghosted down her throat and to her breast. She was having trouble making her brain form thoughts, much less her mouth make words. She was no innocent, it was true, but she'd never had a lover take the time to unravel her so.

“Hmm,” he hummed and she felt her breast be engulfed by his lips, his tongue hot. She arched into him and he made a pleased sound. His hand had wandered lower, slipping between her legs where they were splayed around him. He sucked hard on her breast just as he pressed his fingers into her folds, finding her already slick and wanting. Now the sound he made was closer to a growl.

“Solas...please...”

A finger slipped inside her, smoothing against her heat until he crooked it and she yelped at the intensity of the sensation. He released her breast and watched himself toy with her, his hand steady on her mound as his fingers probed and stroked her to a dizzying peak. It took an embarrassingly short amount of time and she would have hidden her face if she had the wherewithal to, but he was shifting over her, his fingers withdrawing. He lifted her leg around his hip, the blunt head of his cock falling into the space between them. It made her clench.

“Tell me again...” he whispered. “Tell me.”

“I want you,” she whispered back, her voice barely there. “Please...”

He hitched her leg higher on his hip, opening her wider, and he surged into her. The stretch was delicious. He filled her in just the right way, to all the places that felt best and she helplessly whimpered at it. She already felt boneless and weak, but she found the strength from somewhere to meet him, to lift her hips into his steady strokes. Her hands landed on his shoulders and she clawed at him to bring him closer, to feel him stretched over her skin, his weight a fulfilling comfort. He groaned in her ear and pressed deeper into her.

They were by turns lazy and frenzied and the bed was a mess. But La'vise didn't care. She never wanted it to end. She never wanted to see anything on his face other than that expression of covetous pride. She felt cherished in his embrace. Amidst the scattering of her thoughts as he touched her, she wondered if he felt the same.

He kissed her hard as he thrust into her, straining towards release. She could feel it in the tension of back muscles, the grip he had on her leg, the ragged tempo of his breathing. She held him tightly to her, her ankles crossed on his back, her hands digging into his shoulders. She begged, and she wasn't quite sure what she was begging for.

He came with a gasp and a growl and she shuddered under him, feeling a little like she'd moved a mountain. He held her loosely now, let her limbs relax around him as he traced her face with the tips of his fingers.

“I will never get enough of you,” he said. He almost sounded sad and she slid her hands over his shoulders to his face to make him look at her.

“Then do it again,” she murmured, letting heat bleed into her voice. As she hoped, he smirked at her.

“Ma nuvenin.”


End file.
